


In The Dark

by pistachioinfernal



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Blood, Child Abuse, Gen, Mind Control, Spy Adventure, Torture, Wounds, coarse language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistachioinfernal/pseuds/pistachioinfernal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an assassin kills several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, Clint Barton aka Hawkeye is sent to terminate her. But nothing is as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Suicide in Buffalo Is Redundant

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, all mistakes are mine own. Short chapter so a new one will be coming soon. This is a 'slow burn' story, where it starts exciting, calms down, and then gets exciting again. So please bear with me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a mission gone wrong, Hawkeye must survive without a partner or weapons.

**2008, Thursday May 29, 1:30pm.**

 

"Let's wake him up."

Clint was hit by what felt like a wall of freezing cold water. He stuttered back to consciousness, shaking and spluttering like a dog coming out of the rain. Where the hell was he….

Oh. Right.

 

He'd been tracking down some 'private individuals' in Buffalo. They'd been selling radioactive iodine on the local black market. He'd gotten a bit too curious too fast, and now, he was dangling from his wrists in a basement somewhere. He flexed his hands, feeling them throb with trapped blood and tried to center himself. 

He wasn't any good at this undercover shit. If he lived through this, he was going to reconsider the whole thing.

If he lived through this.

 

He blinked, trying to focus. There was a man in front of him holding a dripping bucket, what was his name?

"Kevin! Kevin, you should really let me go." he said, smiling despite his split lip. The other guy, the little one sitting at the desk, Fred maybe? laughed as Kevin stepped up, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head back. 

"Oh really?" said Kevin. "Because I think we should call the people you work for and ask for a million bucks or they get you back in little pieces."

Hawkeye chuckled, trying not to wince. "No, what you should really do is let me go before the strike team gets here."

Kevin laughed. "Yeah, right."

"No seriously, if an agent is out of contact for more then two hours, they send out a strike team to level the place. In case they've been compromised."

"That's bullshit." Kevin said, but he looked more then a little shaky.

"No sir, it's the real deal. You've seen what Iron Man did to that guy on tv? That was just a preview, we've got things that'll make this place look like a crater on the moon." He was lying through his teeth. Hopefuly they wouldn't notice.

Just then the basement door opened. "Kev! Is that asshole awake yet?" said the voice.

Kevin exchanged a worried look with Fred before letting Clint go, turning to the newcomer, a large fat man with glasses. "Uh….yeah. He's saying some really bad shit is going to go down, Sam."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Like what?"

Kevin gulped. "He says that his guys are gonna turn us into a moon crater."

Sam took off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair, then rolled up his sleeves.

"Oh yeah? Is that what he says?" he said, glaring at Clint. Clint just stared back.

Sam reached out a large finger and poked him in the side. Hard. Clint bit back a grunt.

"Yeah, you've got a broken rib there pal." He poked again. Harder. This time if felt like a hot poker being jabbed into his side. Hawkeye blacked out for a second and came back with an stabbing pain in his side, gasping for air.

Sam smiled nastily. "Oh sorry, you've got two broken ribs. That must hurt like a mother, right?"

He slammed his fist into Clint's side, really fast. Maybe three or four times, maybe ten. Clint couldn't count anymore, he was too busy screaming.

 

The next thing he knew, Sam's voice was speaking right into his ear.

"Listen to me James Bond, I think you're full of shit. I don't think that anyone is gonna do anything to save you, because you're not with the government, you're just some nosey asshole. And even if you are, I don't give a fuck. So here's what's  gonna happen. We're gonna put two in your head, and take you to the old train yard and bury you. Don't worry, you'll have a lot of company."

Sam turned away. "Wait!" Clint said. Or tried to. His throat was dry, sore. He licked his lips and tried again. "Wait, you…I can get you things." he croaked.

Sam turned back. "Oh yeah? What kind of things Bond?"

"Stark components."

The three men exchanged glances. Sam folded his arms and Kevin copied him

"I'm listening."

"There's….there's a safe house with Stark Tech components, left there since World War Two. I can take you there."

Sam snorted. "What, some low life little shit knows where a Stark stash is? Do I look like a moron? Kev, kill him."

Kevin pulled out a gun. "Wait! I'm telling you the truth, I swear!" Clint shouted.

Kevin paused, exchanging a look with Sam.

"Look, look I found it when I was poking around. It's an old Stark safe house, it was  sealed, everything there is still in mint condition. " Clint continued.

Sam shrugged. "So what, it's like, fifty years outta date."

"Sixty three." said Clint.

The three exchanged looks. "It's been…never mind. Look, this stuff was all patents that never hit the market. You read the papers, right, right? Howard Stark was a man before his time, invented things Edison would wet himself for. I swear to god, I'll show you where it is, but don't kill me, okay? Please?"

Sam nodded. "Okay, maybe you do have something. Kev, cut him loose."

Kevin frowned, but then sighed, moving towards the archer. Clint could feel something sawing at his ropes, and without warning, he fell, hitting the floor hard. His body exploded in a fury of agony and he lay on the floor trying not to scream.

"Whups, guess you should have braced yourself, huh." he heard Sam's voice say from a far away distance.

Clint pushed himself slowly to his knees. Even that little effort made him break out into a nauseous sweat. He panted, trying get his breath back and to ignore the horrible stabbing feeling in his side when he took a breath.

"Come on sunshine, we're waiting on you, and I hate waiting."

Now on his feet, Clint staggered his way over to the desk. He leaned on it, catching his breath.

"Listen up tough guy, we're not gonna let you out of this basement, all right? You draw us a map, or give us an address, we'll go check it out. If it's good,then you're free to go, all right?"

Fred pushed a piece of paper and a pen towards him. Clint looked at it, then back at the men.

"Can….can I have a chair, please?"

Fred smiled smugly. 

"Sorry, only the one chair" Sam said with false apology.  "Fred's got this condition. He has to stay off his feet, you know?"

Hawkeye nodded. "Right…." He took the pen, trying to grip it tight in his hand as he scribbled some words on the paper, ignoring the red smears the he made on it.

"It's at 4567 Waverly Road, the basement. Most of it is in red cardboard boxes."

He wrote the address as carefully as possible. Sam took it off the desk, looked at it.

"Okay. I'm gonna go check this out. You guys stay here, tie him up again."

Clint groaned. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep, or take a bottle of codeine. Or codeine, then sleep. Both would be great. "Come on guys-"

"You know we're the ones with the guns, so we're gonna make the rules here." said Sam, just before he disappeared up the stairs. Moments later, Clint heard the door slam.

Kevin approached Clint, grinning. "We cool tough guy?"

Clint nodded wearily. "Yeah, we're cool."

 

The pen in his hand felt light as a feather as he spun it through the air towards the other man. Even as it left his hand, he knew it was sweet. And it was, hitting Kevin right in the jugular with the meaty 'thunk' of a dart hitting the target. Arterial blood spurted out like a waterfall and Kevin slowly fell to the ground, one hand desperately clutching at his wound.

Fred started to stand up, his eyes wide, but Clint shoved the desk into the chair, knocking the little man over onto the floor. He scrambled across the desk and half jumped, half fell on smaller man, knocking all the breath out of him. The other man reached for something in a drawer, only to have Clint slam it shut, smashing his fingers. Fred let out a small shriek, only to grow silent when his own gun was pointed in his face.

"Okay Fred…here's how it's…gonna go. You give me…your cell phone…you…have one…..right?...and I'll let you live." Clint coughed, and tasted blood. Not good.

Fred nodded, terrified, reaching slowly into his pocket. Clint grabbed it and started tapping in the number, put it to his ear when it started ringing.

"This….." he was having trouble catching his breath. "This is Hawkeye, requesting immediate extraction….from….I….don't know where I am."

 _"Don't worry Barton, we've got you covered. Soon as you did your disappearing act we activated Eyes. ETA in five minutes."_  

"Oh…good…can you make it three? Because…I think I'm gonna….pass…out…"

_"Clint, we're almost there. Stay on the line, okay? Stay calm, we're almost there."_

"Thats'….good." He was bleeding onto Fred, who was looking more then a little freaked out. He was freaking out himself, since the pain was getting worse, feeling like some sort of animal was trying to bite it's way out of his chest.

Suddenly there was a sound of wood splintering and heavy boots thudding through an empty house, and a moment later Agent Coulson appeared at the top of the stairs. Clint smiled up at him with relief, then slowly slid to the ground as he blacked out.


	2. Good to Be Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath from Buffalo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed, my errors are mine own.

"You're an idiot."

Clint couldn't open his eyes. He was….drifting, somewhere. It didn't hurt, the pain was like…a cloud way up in the sky.

He felt a gentle pressure on his hand.

"Get better soon, okay? I'll kick your ass then." said the familiar voice of Agent Coulson. Clint smiled, about to say something…..

 

 

He opened his eyes. He was in a hospital room, and not the average hospital room. For example the struts? the things on the side of the bed, were made of polished wood. The walls were a cornflower blue, with matching curtains on the window. He had the whole room to himself, and there were flowers on the side table. _Guess S.H.I.E.L.D.'s not too mad._

The pain was still there, but it was a dull throbbing thing, something he could handle. The drugs they had him on must be _fantastic._ "Whoa." he croaked.

"Whoa there yourself Keanu." said a voice on the side. He turned his head, smiling at the tired looking woman with long brown hair getting up from the couch opposite.

"Agent Hill." he said. It came out as a dry whisper.

"Agent Idiot." she retorted, but the smile took the sting out of it. She filled a cup full of ice chips from a pitcher, and sat next to his bed.

"I know you must be thirsty, but you've got to heal up a bit first. Here."

She took a chip in her hand and held it out for him. He opened his mouth and she slipped it onto his tongue. He tried to crunch it, but didn't have the strength. He let it melt instead.

"How'm I doing?"

"Well you're not dead." She smiled.

"Come on Maria."

"Ah…perforated lung, gastrointestinal bleeding, broken ribs, rib fractures, mild concussion, severe skin abrasions."

He let his head fall back on the pillow, wincing. "Nothing serious then."

"You'll live. I think Agent Coulson wants to kill you though. When he had you on the line, he thought you were dying."

"Sorry to disappoint."

It was a weak joke, but they both laughed, Clint stopping halfway through to cough.

"Easy.." Maria grabbed a damp cloth and held it to his forehead. He closed his eyes in bliss, the feeling of the cool cloth a relief.

"Hey Maria…" he mumbled. "Have I ever told you you're a beautiful woman?"

"No Clint, and that's what I like about you. You treat me like a soldier, not a girl."

He smiled. "You really know how to cut a guy down, don't you?"

She fed him some more ice chips, then he opened his eyes again.

"So how bad have I screwed up?" She frowned.

She shook her head. "I'm not sure. I mean, this was your first op-"

"Sniping doesn't count?"

"This was your first _field_ op," said Maria. "You didn't put anyone else at risk, and you didn't give away any intell. Of course, if you'd brought someone else _with_ you-"

Clint closed his eyes again.

"Not going to discuss this right now Maria."

"Clint, you need to work with a team. At least a partner-"

"This didn't happen because I didn't bring a team. I was pushing too hard. Got too eager and they smelled it, I practically had 'spy' written on my forehead."

"We all make mistakes."

"So it seems." said a new voice. Maria lept to her feet as Agent Coulson entered the room.

"Agent Hill."

She quirked a small smile. "Agent Phil."

He smiled back in return. She handed him the cup of ice chips and then left the room, waving to Clint on her way out.

"See you later Hawkeye." 

The door closed, and Coulson turned back to Clint, cocking an eyebrow.

"I know sir, I'm an idiot." whispered Clint, smiling slightly to show he wasn't taking it too hard. Coulson shook his head.

"I'm not going to spend time beating you up over this, especially since someones already done that for me. I've seen healthier looking roadkill." 

Clint laughed quietly, trying not to move his chest as he did so.

"What I will say is this: you could have done worse. You may have put yourself in a bad situation, but you got out of it as well. And you did get us Fred Raimer and Sam Lawson, which will take us to the leaders of the black market. That was a nice touch by the way, sending Lawson to a S.H.I.E.L.D. listening post."

Clint shrugged, but was pleased at the praise. "Now we've got some dirt on Lawson, we can make him talk, give up his contacts." said Coulson.

"Dirt?" Clint whispered.

Coulson fed him an ice chip. "You may not remember…when were evacing you to the hospital, you told me that there were bodies in a old railway?"

"Yeah…that's where they told me they were going to bury me." A chill ran through him as he remembered. 

Coulson nodded. "Thankfully it didn't come to that. Good job Barton.With a little more training you could be a regular Black Widow."

Clint's eyes were getting heavy now, and it seemed like the thing to do would be to close them. But he had to ask….

"Black who?"


	3. Recovery Position

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint starts to research the mysterious assassin known only as 'The Black Widow'.

To pass the time in hospital, Clint started researching the Black Widow. As a hobby at first, a way to pass the time, but then it became more of an obsession. It especially helped when the bandages on his wrist itched, or his ribs ached, or when the pain kept him awake at night. Coulson and Maria teased him about his 'new girlfriend' when they came to visit. He'd just smile and shake his head.

What was really interesting was that he could hardly find anything on her. Her appearance was on file with S.H.I.E.L.D., a picture of a beautiful young woman, with cold blue eyes and long dark red hair. She didn't really look like a killer, but then neither did he.

There was a listing of most of her kills, but that was really it, and even those were mostly educated guess work, or second hand information. There was nothing about her personal life, or where she lived and grew up, or who her parents were. It was frustrating and exhilarating. Even finding a crumb of information on her was a personal triumph to him, like panning for gold.

"She's a mercenary really." said Coulson when he asked about her.  "She doesn't have a cause or work for any government. On paper, she works for the Soviets-"

"But Soviet Russia is dead and gone." said Clint, nodding his understanding. "So the question is, who _is_ she working for?" he said, looking over at Coulson for more information. 

The agent shook his head. "A handler, a father figure, a commanding officer….someone's pulling her strings but your guess is as good as mine."

Clint thought about the cold, beautiful face. "Do we have any idea how she feels about it? Her work I mean." he said.

Coulson brought out his Starkpad, and cued up a video. "I thought I'd found all the intel on Black Widow." said Clint, frowning.

"Well you _are_ level five security clearance." said Coulson, only a little condecending.  He pressed play. Clint saw a five minute amateur video of Black Widow taking out a roomful of armed men, messily, horribly. And with a lot of blood.

Coulson paused, and zoomed in on her face. Her teeth were bared, her eyes furious. It wasn't a human face, it was the face of a feral animal lunging in for the kill, the face of someone who'd tasted blood and _liked it_.

"You want to know what I think about how she feels?I think it's what she lives for." said the agent.

 

Clint healed some more, and was able to leave the hospital after a month and return to his quarters on the Helicarrier. He would watch the skin healing, turning gradually from angry red to pale pink. His ribs weren't healing fast enough though, and it made him impatient, made his hands itch for a bow. He took too hanging out in the mess with a stack of rubber bands. Nobody ever caught him, but Fury personally took him aside one day to 'speak' to him about it.

After that he played a lot of darts.

He was very nearly having waking dreams, imagining the pull of the bow string in, the sweet whistle the arrow would make in flight. Notch, draw, aim, loose. Notch, draw, aim, loose, imagining the wood solid in his hand and the fletch of the arrow tickling his cheek.

 

"Easy there, you're drooling." said Maria, smiling when she saw him looking at a bow catalogue in the gym changing room.

Clint rolled his shoulders and winked at her. "Must have been that lobotomy I had before I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Hill."

She groaned and rolled her eyes. "I'm surprised you got through training without a brain, smartass. Wouldn't it have killed you otherwise?"

"Didn't you hear? It did! But I'm too stubborn to stay dead." he said.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. training does seem worse then most." she said in agreement.

"Worse then the Marines?" he asked.

"Nothing's as bad as the Marines." said Coulson as he walked in, immaculately dressed as always.

"Now _there's_ an unbiased opinion." said Clint, exchanging a smile with Maria.

"In the Marines the only time you sleep is when you're dead. The only thing you drink is your own urine, and the only thing you eat is anything slower then you."

Clint and Maria both made faces at that. Coulson cracked a smile. "And that's just the first day."

Clint laughed. "All right tough guy, what brings you here?"

Coulson pulled him aside. "You know all that information you've been collecting on the Black Widow?"

"Uh huh?"

Coulson handed Clint a manilla folder. He opened it and started skimming. Maria politely excused herself, and he waved absently as she left. He looked up at Coulson with a frown of concern.

"When did this happen?"

"Less then twenty four hours ago. S.H.I.E.L.D. was investigating a potential Ten Rings cell when we lost radio contact. When a we sent out a retrieval team, all we found were pieces."

"Pieces of who, the cell or the agents?"

"Both. We can't even tell who's who."

Clint grimiced.

"It was Director Fury's idea that you brief Agent Hill, who will be sent after Black Widow. But I don't think that's going to happen, is it?"

Clint shook his head as he closed the file. "No it isn't Phil." He stared at the cover of the folder, his eyes tracing the S.H.I.E.L.D. symbol. "Because I'm going to take this mission. Whether or not Fury accepts that is his problem."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if Coulson was in the Marines or not, but I thought it would fit the character well.


	4. Good To Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye's final preparations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed, all mistakes are mine own. Apologies for the lateness.

"Permission denied Agent Barton."

They were on the deck of the Helicarrier, Fury, Clint, and Coulson. Fury was standing 'on deck', surveying his screens. Coulson and Clint stood at his right so as to stay in his field of vision.

"Sir, in my opinion-"

"Oh really? In your opinion?" said Fury, turning to look at Clint, staring him down. Clint stared back. Coulson shifted uncomfortably, apparently not happy with his boss and his agent being at odds.

"Well _my_ opinion Agent Barton, is that you are trying to make up for recent mistakes. You have only just recovered from your _last_ mission and you want to wade into Russia to take out one of the worlds most deadly assassins? This won't be like Buffalo, you won't have Agent Coulson there to babysit you."

 Clint burned with embarrassment, but took a deep breath and soldiered on.

"Sir, for a mission like this, you _need_ a sniper. The Black Widow is a hand to hand expert, the best way to take her out is from a distance."

"There are other snipers, agent."

"Not any like me sir." said Clint.

"You really think if an ex-Soviet assassin shows up dead with an arrow through her chest people won't be suspicious?"

"I think it would be to our benefit sir. Send a message."

Fury looked at him, then smiled slightly, and Clint felt like he'd just passed some kind of test.

"All right then, you leave for Russia in two weeks. I expect you to be ready by then, _Hawkeye_."

Clint smiled as he saluted. "Sir, yes sir."

 

Clint spent the next several days studying the Black Widow (he'd gotten temporary security level six), sleeping, and training.

He needed to get as well as possible to take this mission, otherwise there would be no point. Had to get his arms in shape again, which meant healing his ribs up.

So he drank a lot of milk and orange juice, ate a lot of protein, bananas, scrambled egg whites, chicken breast. After about three days of that, all he could think of anymore was junk food. He could _murder_ a pizza, cheese oozing over the sides, pepperoni, mushrooms….

"Focus Barton, stay on mission." he told himself, sighing as he picked up the Widow file again.

The doctors told him that he was healing well, which made him smile. They didn't seem to mean it as a real compliment, giving him surly looks. Probably worried that he was about to undo all their good work. Which, lets face it, was entirely possible.

He'd spoken to Doctor Stewart a few times, although he'd rather have teeth pulled  without anaesthetic.

All the Doctor ever asked him was: 'How does that make you feel?'

'I was tortured, oh, how does that make you feel?'

'I nearly screwed up my objective, oh how does that make you feel?'

'Doctor Stewart, if you say that one more time I'm going to kill you, oh how does that make you feel.'

He complained to Coulson about it, but all Coulson could do was shrug in sympathy. "He's the cousin to one of the brass." he said, which told Clint all he really needed to know.

 

And suddenly the two weeks were up. He packed, picked up his gear from the quartermaster and headed to the hanger bay.  Coulson was there to see him off. 

"What's the plan Barton?"

"Well once I'm in Moscow I'm going to gather live intel on Widow, learn her movements. After about a week, I'm going to pick my opportunity, take her out, and then head to the extraction point."

"In my experience, things don't often go so smooth."

"That's why I've read up on the area, spoken to some of the other agents, looked at the maps-"

"Not just Google maps I hope." said Coulson, smiling stiffly. The other man seemed…

"Coulson, are you _worried_ about me?" said Clint, smiling. 

"Hawkeye…I don't have to tell you how important this mission is."

"They're _all_ important." Clint said.

"Not like this one Clint. You watch your back. And stay paranoid, you're too trusting for god's sake."

Clint winked. "You're paranoid enough for both of us Phil, that's why I'm still alive."

Coulson put a cautionary hand on his shoulder. "Don't get cocky."

Clint put his hand over Coulsons, nodding. Then he walked towards the small plane that was waiting for him on the deck. As he got to the hanger, he turned back, waving as the ramp closed after him.


	5. Arrivals and Departures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a darker turn as Clint arrives in Russia for his mission.

Clint looked around the Myachokovo Airport, which looked the way a lot of airports looked: white and large. It did have things written in Cyrilic and Czech, but that was about all that was different from an American Airport. One thing that was different was that he didn't have to empty his pockets, take off his shoes and etc. just to get into the country. He just hoped his new baby hadn't been damaged in the flight.

 

Just thinking about her brought a smile to his face. Brand new, he'd only been able to use her about four times before the mission. For a toxophilite like him, she was a living dream. A recurve with a blue/black, lacquered resin finish. Light and sturdy, a bow string that was flexible but strong, olympic quality. He couldn't wait to really see what she could do in the field.

After waiting for about an hour, he had his bags in hand. He smiled, picturing using his bow again, _actually_ using it this time instead of just seeing if he could pull the string.

 

According to S.H.I.E.L.D. files, the apartment building where the Black Widow lived was on Tverskaya St. He took a taxi to the street next to it and started scouting for somewhere to spy on her, walking the streets.

 

"<Hello, hello young man!>" said a voice. He turned to see an elderly woman holding out a rose to him, smiling.

 

"<Buy a rose for your wife?>"

 

"<No, I have no wife.>" he said apologetically in his bad Russian.

 

"<Buy for your girlfriend then? Certainly a handsome young man like yourself has a pretty young woman waiting for him.>"

 

"<No girlfriend, but I am looking for pretty lady.>"

 

"<Good for you American boy, Russian woman are the best, unforgettable!>" she said with a wink. He laughed, shaking his head as he walked away.

 

It was soon after that he found the perfect place, an old textile factory that was for lease. It was three streets away from the apartment, but because of its hight, he could see right into her room. No obstructions. It was cold, draughty, with some signs of mice and past squatters, but even though the mice seemed recent, the food and blankets were dusty and mouldy. Which meant he had the place to himself. He set up a desk and chair that weren't too badly damaged, as well as rescuing a large patch of purple velvet which would help block out any light that he was making.

 

He set out his small laptop in the far corner so that it faced both the window and the doorway (the only door way leading to the room), then strung up his hammock in the far right corner, where he would be in shadow but still catch the light in the morning and not oversleep. He didn't have much food at the moment, but what he did have he wrapped in tinfoil and put in a pocket under the hammock. His baby he put on his back, smiling as he did.

"Now we're ready for anything, right baby?"

 

Then he settled down for the hardest part. Waiting.

 

At around 3pm he saw the Widow arrived at her apartment building. She nodded to the doorman, then went in. When she entered her apartment, she kicked of her high heels and dropped her purse on the side table. Pulling off her earrings, she started to unzip her dress as she walked towards the bathroom.

Clint looked away, blushing. Oh Maria would laugh if she could see him now.

 

Once she was out of the shower (he knew she took a shower instead of a bath because he looked sideways) she got out her laptop and spent some time on it. 

 

"Time to see what she's seeing." he said before he scrambled a call to S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

"This is Hawkeye. Some Harps Ire Eagles Lagging Dawn."

 

_"Confirmed Hawkeye, this is Agent Verde, go ahead."_

__

"I need to see the contents of a computer drive, as well as real time of what the user is doing."

 

_"Okay, if you go to your packet, there should be three of four SSQUIDs in there."_

Clint went to his bag and rummaged around, finally pulling out a small foil wrapper.

"Got it."

_"Okay, remove the adisive and stick it as high as you possibly can on the nearest window. And make sure it's line of sight."_

__

Clint tore the wrapper open and took out the SSQUID (Super Superconducting Quantum Interferance Device), and attached it to the one of the windows, standing on a desk to get it high enough.

 

"Done."

__

_"All right, give it a minute or so, and it should be one of the files on your desktop."_

__

Clint sat in front of his laptop, then nodded. "I think I've found it….yes, this is her, Natalie Rushman."

 

_"Dont forget to set up file sharing and the desktop, you should be able to see it momentarily. Just don't jiggle the mouse if she's using it though, or she'll know something hinky's going on."_

__

"Thanks Verde, it's all good from this end."

 

_"All right Hawkeye, take care."_

 

 

After half an hour, Clint was convinced that the Widow had no personality. Or was some sort of killer robot. No virtual post-its, no journal entries, and not one game. Still, it fit with what Coulson told him, that Black Widow lived for the kill.

 

He read one of her reports, the computer automatically translating it for him.

 

_Mission to Iran a success. Minimal exposure, and no witnesses as per instructions. Returned to Red Room for debriefing, all hail Mother Russia._

 

Clint frowned at the screen. 'All Hail Mother Russia?' Widow didn't strike him as a patriot. And what was Red Room?

He tried looking up the S.H.I.E.L.D. database, but got the 'access restricted' warning. Ah well, he'd try again in the morning. Although it was strange that she hadn't written up any mention of the Ten Rings situation.

In any case, he'd have this mission wrapped nice and neat soon enough, at which point it wouldn't matter. Sighing, he took out his binoculars and sat down to keep watch.

 

Four days later, Clint flipped through his notes with disgust as he sat in his 'perch' on the textile roof. He was closer to killing _himeself_ then the Widow. She was one of the most paranoid people he'd ever met, changing her routine every day, sometimes every hour! She visited seemingly random people and places, doubling back on her tracks four or five times. The few places that she did visit often (a boxing gym and an English language bookstore) he only became aware of after the fact. Not only that, but he'd found out (the first night) that the windows of her apartment were bullet proof. Or at least arrow proof. When his arrow had bounced off the window that second night, he hadn't been sure if he should  laugh or cry.

 

"No wonder no-one's had any luck with this one." he muttered to himself, putting down his binoculars to rub at his sore eyes. There had to be a way to do this…he just hadn't figured one out yet.

__

"<What the hell is this?>"

 

Clint starteled at the voice in the building. The building that was supposed to be empty. He got up and moved quietly towards it, notching an arrow as he did.

 

"<My God, someone's been spying on her?!>"

 

Clint cursed himself for not locking the door to the building, for not putting away his files. Just because the building was abandoned he was alone? Stupid stupid idiot!

 

He carefully turned the corner, and saw a ragged looking man, about twenty or so, looking at his files. One of the past squatters? A homeless man looking for shelter?

Whoever he was, he was looking at classified information.

 

"<I should go, tell Ivan->" he said, then turned and saw Clint. His eyes widened, and he put up a hand to stop him. But Clint had already let the arrow loose. It was sweet, he knew it as it left the bow. It sizzled through the air and landed with thud in the man's chest, burried all the way to the fletch. He looked down at it, puzzled, his legs giving out under him. Clint dashed across the small room and caught him, lowering him gently to the ground.

The other man looked up at him with shock and surprise.

 

"<I don't….>" he shuddered once. Then relaxed, body going slack. Dead.

Clint slowly lowered him to the ground, and closed his eyes. He sat next to the boy, looking down at the face, that would still, for a few minutes more, look real. Look alive. "I'm sorry. She wouldn't hesitate…..so I can't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to post tomorrow to make up for the long delay. The thing is, I realised that I wasn't happy with the story, and it took me a while to figure out how to fix it. One thing led to another, and I sat around biting my nails and cudgelling my brain trying to make this chapter work. So if it feels a bit stiff, that's why. Hopefully this won't happen again (because I'll go cuckoo if it does).


	6. The Red Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint learns more of the mysterious Black Widows past.

_Day 2, 3pm. The Widow stopped by an alley. Zooming in revealed that she was watching a bird, a pigeon that had been run over by a car. The bird was badly injured. Black Widow stood there for an hour, watching it, at which point the bird died. Then she moved on._

 

_3:30pm, Black Widow has tea._

 

Clint flipped back and forth trough his past notes, rubbing his eyes as he tried to summon up some sort of enthusiam. It was a little harder ever since the death of the squatter. He'd buried the man yesterday, in the lot behind the factory. The whole experience had put him off kilter, like he'd lost his center.

"Knock it off Hawkeye, there's casualties on every mission." he muttered to himself.

That was why working alone was best, you only had yourself to worry about.

 

He closed the notebook and picked up his binoculars and headphones again, scanning the street. Hopefully, he'd get lucky and find her alone-

"<Natasha!>"

Nope, god hated him.

 

The person calling her name was a tall jovial looking older man with steel grey hair. He smiled at Widow, and held his arms wide as if for a hug.

Clint saw a flicker of trepidation in the Widow's eyes before she smiled and hugged the man tightly. "<Ivanavich.>"

Ivan? The squatter had been talking about an Ivan. Coincidence?

 

They started to speak in Russian. Clint had a mic on them but his Russian was much better when he could hear people clearly. As it was he only got a few words here and there. 'Such a nice day' 'been so long'. Then something very clear. 'Red Room'. Widow nodded, but something…something about her seemed off when it was brought up. Ivan seemed to notice it too, and leaned forward, looking concerned. She waved it away with a smile, gesturing to her forehead. " 'Not tonight dear, I have a headache' ." Clint said to himself, and smiled.

They talked for a few minutes longer, then she turned to go. Ivan gently grabbed her by the arm and seemed to be persuading her of something. She shook her head, but then seemed to give in. Clint, frowning, followed them. What was it that had the deadly Black Widow spooked?

As Clint followed them deeper into the winding maze of tall fences and quiet streets, he started to feel ill at ease. Several times he turned around to see if he was being followed himself, but there was no sign of it.

He hunched his shoulders against the chill spring evening, pulling his coat tight.

 

And then.

And then there was a house.

A black house with a red door, behind a series of roving alleyways, far away from the main street, far away from people. From witnesses.

 

Ivan knocked on the door and a man answered it. He nodded to Ivan, then let the door open wide to let them both in. Clint watched from a safe distance, nestled in a shadow. He had to know what was happening in there.

A quick trip to a side door and some lock picking let him into the house. The corridors were poorly lit, giving it an ominous feel. He also walked by several rooms that seemed to be dormitories, only without the warmth and character that most orphanages had. There was a room that seemed to be an armoury, but the building was obviously for teenagers. "As if I needed any more clues that this was a bad idea." he muttered to himself. He stood still, listening.

There were voices coming from somewhere in the house, and he moved towards them, slowly and carefully, adrenaline spiking his senses.

 

"<…we have not had much success since you my darling.>" said Ivan's voice. "< None have been as loyal and as capable.>"

"<None as ruthless perhaps?>" said Widow. Ivan laughed in reply. "< True, you did always have a cold way. But that came with time my dear, nothing you were not able to achieve in and of yourself.>"

Clint carefully peered around the corner. Natasha and Ivan were standing on the side, watching a group of teenage girls in white leotards being led in a ballet lesson. 

< "They haven't your grace yet. But I think that they can measure up.>" Ivan said.

"< I'd like to test that theory. >" said Widow. Ivan smiled and nodded.

"<Of course my dear, I wouldn't have expected anything less.>"

 

Natasha nodded back, then shrugged out of her coat. She walked over to one of the shorter girls, who was doing a pelé. Without any warning, she kicked her in the stomach.

Or she would have. The girl dodged with unbelievable quickness, moving like she was made of mercury. Turning, she thrust her her head upwards, hitting Widow's chin with a sold sounding 'clack'. Widow reeled backwards, then looked back at the girl, smiling through a bloodied mouth. They sparred, Widow a blur of black and red, the girl a pale white shadow. Clint had heard of people who looked like they were dancing when they were fighting, but he'd never seen something like this. It was the most brutal and beautiful thing he'd ever seen, just watching them made his hair stand on end.

Finally it stopped, the girl flat on the wooden floor with Widow pinning her, the girls arm wrenched up in a way that Clint knew would break it if she moved wrong. Or if Widow did.

Widow smiled, then released her.

"<One day little bird, you may be able to beat me. But not today.>"

 

The whole thing had feeling of a friendly match, just fun and games. But the other girls hadn't cheered or booed. They hadn't clapped at the brilliant moves, or walked over to congratulate their friend. They had watched empty eyes, their leotards the only bright thing in the dark room. The girl who had been sparring with Widow got up without speaking, bowed, and went back to her exercises.

Ivan nodded to Widow as she joined him. "<We were only able to restart the program seven years ago, as you know, but I feel the progress that we have made is very heartening.>"

"<They will never be ready for the field.>" said Widow, shaking her head. "<You saw how she was. Sloppy, too impatient.>"

"<Tasha, Tasha. Not everyone has the benefit of the training that you had. These girls were eight when we started training them, you were not even two years of age.>" 

Two years old? They trained her from that young? Who _were_ these people? Clint thought. 

"< Besides,>" Ivan continued. "<Even our worst will be better then anyone else's best. You know this>"

Widow looked back over her shoulder at the girls, who were standing on tiptoe in perfect unison, their faces turned towards the mirror opposite.

"<Yes I know.>" she said. Her face looked as smooth and pale as the face of a doll. Then she moved towards the exit.

"<Thank you for the visit Ivan.>"

"<My dear Tasha, it is always a pleasure.>" said Ivan. "<Don't forget that your monthly treatment is next Friday.>"

Widow froze, then turned. "<I did not think those were still necessary.>"

"<My dear, you will require a treatment once a month for the rest of your life. You know this.>" said Ivan, with an air of weariness and patience.

Widow slowly nodded. "<Very well Ivan, until next Friday then.>"

"<Until then my little spider.>"

 

Clint stood still as Widow passed by the alcove where he was hiding, the breeze of her passing chilling him. He waited until he heard the door open and shut, then began to leave. 

Only to stop as he heard the sound of a loud slap from the ballet room. He turned to see the girl Widow had fought on the ground, Ivan standing over her with his hand upraised. Ivan slapped her, hard, twice more, the sounds echoing in the room like gunshots. The girl wasn't crying, although her face was now swollen and red.

"<Next time, you will _not_ fail! Go to your room now. And do not come down for dinner, you do not deserve it. When next you fight, you will win or go hungry again. >"

The girl nodded, and got to her feet. She quietly left room, the other girls still going through their ballet forms.

 

Clint was shaking and cold all the way back to the nest. Even soup heated to boiling on the hot plate didn't warm him. He picked up his bow and climbed down disintegrating stairs to the next floor.

He hunted among the scraps until he found a largish square of red cloth, and tacked it to the far wall.

Walking to the opposite end, he drew and aimed at his target and loosed. He hit centre side and grimaced. Drew and aimed again.

 

_You will not fail._

Draw.

_You were not even two years of age._

Aim.

_Your monthly treatment_

Loose.

_Their eyes, their eyes, the pale girls in the pale clothes._

Draw.

 

He threw himself into his art, his world nothing but the bow and the target, until suddenly he reached up for an arrow and grabbed air. He blinked, suddenly realizing there was sweat running down his face, that his arms ached along with his nearly healed ribs.

Mechanically, he walked to the target and pulled the arrows carefully out of the wall, a part of him noticing that they had hit the mark on almost every go, the arrow heads crowding each other. He cleaned them and wiped down his bow with a clean cloth before crawling up into his hammock and instantly falling asleep.


	7. Roving Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint finally decides to do the deed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hokay, sorry again about the delay. I've not been being good about the 'every other day' schedule that I had originally planned. I'm also worrying about the story, since it doesn't seem to be thriving and I'm not sure if I'm doing this right or not. But such is life, worrying about things you can't control is a pointless endeavour. Anyway, here's the new chapter, enjoy! :)  
> Also special thanks to HappilyWicked, who pointed out that I posted multiple Chapter Sixes and helped me realise I needed to reformat my work. Thanks for the help, it was much appreciated. :)
> 
> Update: Have fixed some glaring errors, it should scan better now.

"This is Hawkeye. Salamanders Have In Earnest Languidly Drowned."

 

_"This is Agent Hill, go on."_

 

Clint was looking out his window at the Black Widow's apartment. He'd finished adjusting one of his trick arrows so that it would penetrate the blullet resistant glass.

 

"Maria….do you enjoy working for S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

 

There was silence on the line for a moment. _"Clint, are you okay?"_

 

"I'm fine Maria, just being Agent Idiot."

 

_"What's going on Clint."_

 

He looked at the aparment window. A light had just gone on. "Nothing Maria. Guess I'm just homesick."

 

_"Well finish the op and you can come home."_

 

Clint saw the curtains twitch before they were briskly pulled open. Black Widow squinted into the morning sun, then walked towards the bathroom.

 

"Yeah. Sounds like a plan."

 

_"Clint, what you asked me….I don't always enjoy the work I do for S.H.I.E.L.D. But it is important. And I know in my heart that it's necessary."_

 

Clint stared as the door to the bathroom closed. He crossed to the desk and picked up his bow.

 

"You're right Maria. Thanks for the talk."

 

_"No problem Clint. Take care. Agent Hill out."_

 

He hung up, then opened his window, waiting.

 

 

Widow was getting out of the shower now, wrapping a towel around herself. He notched the arrow and drew the bow, waiting for the right moment. He looked through the scope on the sight, and frowned. She was writing something on the mirror with her finger. He zoomed in, curious.

 

_Inessa Drakoff_

_AMC_

_Sao Paulo_

_Maza Segundo_

 

As he continued to watch, she wiped the words away with a towel, then brought out a cleaning spray and cleaned the clear surface. Paranoid, but she had a right to be.

There were two places she always went, the gym and the bookstore. Why a bookstore? Still thinking, he put down the bow.

 

 

The next day he got up real close. Stupid close. He wore a loud tourist shirt and hat to distract from his face, with a pinhole camera in a shirt button. Hopefully, she wouldn't notice him trailing her to the bookstore.

Now that he was closer, he saw that aisle that was simply labelled 'Poetry' in Cyrilic, which tickled him, because in America it would all just be lumped together under 'English Literature'. Widow picked up a book of poems by Sylvia Plath, and opened without looking to one particular page. She read it for nearly ten minutes before closing it and walking out. Clint waited until she was out of sight, then walked into the store. Walking into the poetry aisle, he found the book and picked it up. One page was dog eared and he opened to it. It was a poem called 'Tulips'.

He read it, frowning. Then brought the book to the cashier.

"<Excuse please, how much for?>" he said in his broken Russian.

 

Back in his 'nest', he read the poem again, along with the others. He'd never really paid much attention to books, being on the road an' all most of the time as a kid. He hadn't know poetry could be so _depressing_.

There was one paragraph that he kept coming back to, over and over.

 

_The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me._

_Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe_

_Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby._

_Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds._

_They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down_

_Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,_

_A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck._

 

He shook his head, flipping the pages back and forth. "What does this mean to you Natasha? Does the red mean blood? The Red Room?"

 

He read the poem again, then got up, walking over to the computer.

"No….no to you…to you it means death."

 

Sitting in front of the screen, he looked up references to AMC in Russia. He got a hit almost immediately, American Medical Centre. He then cross referenced it with S.H.I.E.L.D. archives. In 2006, there had been a fire in the west  wing of the hospital. It had been confined to one room, but someone had stupidly opened the door and the fire had spread. Seventy two people had died, two hundred had been seriously injured. Ten of the dead had been newborns, who had died due to smoke inhalation.

The cause of the fire had been ruled accidental, faulty wiring. One of the dead had been an American diplomat, Ceaser Wright, a man who was in Russia to further good relations between Russia and America through a series of innovative diplomatic meetings, though with his death, his radical ideas had never come to be. His room was where the fire had started.

 

Clint opened a new tab and searched for Inessa Drakoff. Alan Drakoff had been a scientist working on a new 'panacea' drug designed to fight cancer and possibly the AIDS virus. He had been on his way to Switzerland in a private jet, which had experienced an engine malfunction and crashed into a mountain side. His nineteen year old daughter, Inessa, had joined him at the last minute and had died with all the rest. It had been her first time out of the country.

 

He kept reading, getting more and more depressed as he did so.

Sao Paulo was vague, but he found at least a dozen references to influential people dying in accidents or by 'misadventure'. At least three of them could have been the Black Widow.

 

The last name was Maza Segundo, a poet with dangerous political ideas. Dangerous to the local tyrannical regime. During one of his public readings, a riot had broken out and Maza had been hit on the head with thrown rock, vanishing under the trampling feet of the mob.

 

Clint leaned back from the screen, running his hands through his hair. None of these names had appeared as hits when he'd been researching the Black Widow, but now that he saw them laid out, it couldn't be clearer to him that she was involved. Not only that, but that she obviously-

 

"Holy shit." he breathed.


	8. Actions Speak Louder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Clint knows the Black Widows secret, he intends to help her. Things are about to get tricky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies and thanks to Demon, pretty_and_sick, and HappilyWicked who all left comments on my work, but had them all deleted because I was reformatting the story. I'm sorry for that, if I could message any of you, I would.

"She has a concience Phil." 

He was piggybacking a call through several different channels to get to Coulson. The line was full of static, but still clear enough for him to hear Coulson's sigh.

_"Most people feel regret, that doesn't change anything."_

"I came in here to take out a cold blooded killer. That's not who Romanov is."

There was a sigh on the line. _"Agent Barton, I understand that you feel that way, but she is still responsible for the deaths of our people."_

He hated it when Coulson broke out the 'Agent' label, it always meant he was in trouble. He returned the favour.

"Philip….I don't think she was."

_"I don't understand."_

"Listen, have you ever heard of something called 'Red Room'?" 

There was a pause on the line.

_"Red Room was a...project that started after World War Two, but it was supposedly shut down in '89."_

"From what I've managed to find, it's some sort of training ground. Young girls trained to be deadly assassins, it's like the start of a bad tv show."

_"It's more then that. It started initially with female Soviet snipers recruited during the war, used as assassins. There were only two requirements, that they be beautiful and deadly, the logic being that most people didn't suspect that a pretty girl was also a killer. Once the war ended though, some of their people started to question the things that they were fighting for. So the Soviets started using mind control techniques to keep them on message, ensure their loyalty. It got…bad."_

"How bad?"

_"Reprogramming a human mind isn't an easy science. There was a rogue agent in the sixties. Reports of what happened are mixed, but we do know that she went on a murder spree, and killed about five hundred civilians before she turned the gun on herself. In the course of two hours."_

Clint felt his breath go out of him in a rush. Five hundred? That…wasn't possible.

_"The programming started to get more experimental after that, gene therapy, invitro tinkering, cloning. The man in charge, Ivan Petrovich, was obsessed with creating the perfect soldier. A Red Room agent became a valuable commodity, another weapon on the market."_

There was another pause on the line.

_"Clint…are you saying that Black Widow is one of theirs?"_

"Almost definetly Phil."

_"S.H.I.E.L.D. has no evidence that Red Room is still operational."_

"You're wrong Coulson there _is_ evidence. I was sent to kill her."

 

Clint knew he was going to wreck things again, he knew it. He was a sniper, not a undercover agent. That's why he was sent here. But he was still hanging around Nataha's building, waiting for her to come home. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw her walking down the street, and tried to stay calm. He stood loose and casual, then followed her in. So far so good.

Now all he needed was a plan. Which he didn't have, except…..what? Warning her? Give her money to skip town?

_I guess I'll cross that bridge when I get there._

She walked to the elevators and pushed the button, then stood there waiting. He stood next to her, _don't mind me, I'm just some guy, yes sir._ She let out a little sigh, of frustration? of fatigue? He wasn't sure. He looked over like he'd finally noticed her, gave her a smile, then looked back at the elevator. Okay, okay, what would a regular guy who was waiting for the elevator say?

"That's a nice perfume."

_Oh yeah, smooth Clint, no wait, not smooth, just creepy._

Trying to make it not creepy he turned and smiled, friendly, open. She looked at him, face a blank.

"Thanks." she finally said, then looked back at the elevator.

"Oh, you speak English? That's…good. I mean,  I can barely get by on these damned guidebooks, I'm trying though, so at least there's that, right?"

He was babbling, he _knew_ that he was babbling, so _why couldn't he stop_. It was the terrifying and horrific mixture of being with an incredibly attractive woman and being the man who'd been sent to kill her.

He wondered if the Hulk ever had days like these.

The elevator finally came, and he made sure to let Natasha go first. That way, if it came down to it, he had the upper hand. 

As soon as the doors closed, she dropped, kicking out behind her in a way that his mind would replay as 'not humanly possible'. It hit him right in the forehead and bashed him against the wall of the elevator. His vision was peppered with black spots, and before he could even get his feet under him again, his arms were yanked behind him and secured with a zip tie.

So much for the upper hand.

  

Black Widow hustled him out of the elevator and down the hall. She stopped at her apartment door and managed to juggle both him and the keys. Once the door was open, she pushed him through, hard.Thankfully, he landed on the soft carpet. He couldn't help himself, he laughed, it was so ridiculous. She kicked him again, this time in the stomach.

Even as he curled up around himself, hissing in pain, he knew she didn't kick him hard. That was a warning kick, a 'don't mess with me' kick. She dragged a chair across the room and picked him up by his arm, manhandling him into it. She then stood in front of him, waiting. The look on her face froze him cold.

"Who are you working for?" she said.

Clint had two thoughts. He could lie, she could torture him, get the truth (or not) and his mission would fail.

Or….

Clint shruged. "I was sent here by S.H.I.E.L.D.."

She shook her head and slapped him. Not a girly open handed palm slap. Back of the hand, the one with the rings and the watch. It made his ears ring. "Who?"

"I was sent to Russia by S.H.I.E.L.D.!"

She did it again. "It's S.H.I.E.L.D.! I work for Nick Fury as an agent of the S.H.I.E.L.D.! My codename is Hawkeye."

He looked at her, panting. Natasha frowned. "This isn't how I'm used to things going."

"Tell me about it." he muttered. She sighed. "So tell me _tselka_ , why are you here?"

"I was sent on a mission."

"What mission?"

What could he say, that he was sent here to kill her but changed his mind?

"It's….classified."

She shook her head sadly. "And you were doing _so_ well. I think you might change your tune once I get rid of your kneecaps."

"I guess you're good at that aren't you? The torture." he said. Natasha smoothed back a curl of her hair smugly. "Among other things. It's how I was trained, to be free in every sense of the word."

He stared at her in disbelief, then laughed, shaking his head. "You can't really believe that."

She frowned at him, not understanding.

"Don't you ever feel any remorse?"

She laughed then, folding her arms.

"Remorse? I'm a soldier little _tselka_ , just like you. A soldier doesn't feel remorse for following orders."

He frowned, and she shook her head mockingly. "You really think you can use my own skills on me? I've taken down harder agents then you."

"Sao Paulo." he said. And her face just….stopped.

 

Did she write on the mirror just that one time? Or was it every day? He took a chance, and continued.

"Inessa Drakoff. AMC. Maza Segundo. You write those names on the mirror every day, and every day you wipe the mirror clean. What is it you don't want to see Natasha?"

She's across the room, hitting him this time, with a clenched fist, leaving his ears ringing. He tasted blood as she looked at him, shaking with fury.

"No. You don't get to do that. You don't get to….I'm calling Ivan."

She picked up her cell and started dialling.

"Wait! You want to know what my mission was Natasha? I was sent here to kill you." 

She didn't look up, just smiled slyly. Clint continued.

"But I changed my mind. I want you to join us, join S.H.I.E.L.D.."

 

The words were out of his mouth before he'd even thought them through.

Natasha looked over at him, frowning slightly, then turned off the phone. "You're not lying."

"No, I'm not."

She walked over to him. "Why? What changed your mind?"

He shook his head. "You're...you're not what they tried to make you. They wanted a killing machine, but they screwed up. You're still a person."

She looked at him with glittering eyes, he couldn't tell if it was wonder or fear in her face.

"I've had five lovers in my life. None of them have seen what you have."

Clint winced a little at the raw honesty. "I'm sorry."

"Don't." she said shortly. She paced back and forth briefly, then pulled out a small knife.

"All right _tselka_ , here's what's going to happen next, I cut you loose, and you _never_ come back, _never_ contact me, and _never_ -"

 

There was a loud knock on the door. "< Natasha! Natasha, open the door! >" 

"< One moment Ivan! >" She slid the knife across the floor to him, wasn't time for more, then ran to the door and opened it.

"< Tasha, thank God you're safe. >" said the old man. Clint recognized him, Ivan, the one who runs the Red Room.

_The one who hits little girls._

He gritted his teeth and got the knife under his boot, carefully pushing it towards his hand. He could just barely touch it with his fingertips….

 

Natasha was talking to Ivan. "< Of course I'm safe. >" she said, smiling as she gave him a fond kiss on the cheek. The old man glared at Clint, letting go of the young woman.

" < This man is from S.H.I.E.L.D.! He came here to kill you! >"

He drew a gun from his coat, but Black Widow stopped him with a gentle hand on his wrist.

" < No Ivanovich.>"

She took the gun from him and pointed it at Clint with a cold resolve.

" < Allow me. >"


	9. A Toast For Your Coffin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has to save Natasha before it's too late.

Clint pushed the chair backwards to the floor, just in time to dodge the bullet, which shattered the window behind him. Getting to his feet, he dashed for the opening, ignoring the shouting behind him. Without looking down, he jumped, into the air.

 

For a breathless second, it felt like he was flying. He smiled, remembering his old days in the circus, swinging from the high wire as he aimed at a painted bullseye.

But then gravity, and reality, stepped in, and he started to fall. He looked around frantically, seeing nothing below him but the ground.

It flashed through his mind how crazy it would be, to die like this when he'd come so far.

 

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the balcony.

He leaned towards it, praying that he wouldn't hit it wrong, praying that he would hit it at all.

He did, and not too badly, rolling and taking most of the impact on his shoulder, making pain flare through his body. He got to his feet and flattened against the building, trying to breath as quietly as possible.

 

The shouting was heard again.

"<How could you let him escape!>"

"<I didn't let him escape Ivan, I tried to shoot him, he was too fast.>"

"<Natasha, you can't lie to me. There is no-one faster then you.>"

"<He is S.H.I.E.L.D. trained-"

"<Please…little spider, stop before you embarrass yourself further..>"

"<Ivan->"

"<No, I will not stand here and listen to your lies. It is clear to me that it has been far too long since your last treatment. We are going to the Red Room now.>"

Clint listened for her reply, ignoring the pounding in his ears.

"<….Very well Ivan.>"

 

Natasha sounded…defeated. That couldn't be, not her. It was against everything he'd read, everything he'd seen.

_No! Don't do it, don't go with him! You have a choice Natasha._

But he heard the sound of the window closing, knew that it was only a matter of time. He heard sirens in the distance and started working frantically on his bonds with the knife, which he'd somehow managed to keep ahold of. Clint picked the lock on the room (which was deserted thank god for that) and ran to the door.

He had to get back to the Red Room.

 

He'd at least stopped by his nest to pick up his bow and quiver. The sun had completely set by the time Clint got to the Red Room, and everything was pitch black. He went as carefully and quickly as he could, trying not to make any sound. Then stopped.

_Why are you doing this Hawkeye? What's so important about this girl? You should just cut and run while you still can. It's not like you owe her anything._

He knew it was a lie, but it was tempting, _so_ tempting to just leave. After all, she wasn't anyone important, not a friend or a fellow agent. She was just a sad little killer who'd spared his life.

He ran faster.

 

Once inside the house, he paused, listening. There was nothing but silence. It was so quiet he could hear his heart pounding as he tried to catch his breath. He waited, listening. Then he heard a small sound. He followed it.

The sound came from a door. It was emitting a small electronic beep, coming from a key pad. He looked at it briefly, then smiled, taking out his EMP arrowhead.

_To think I thought Fury was overdoing it when he gave me the trick arrows._

He turned it to low yield, then tapped it to the pad once. It shorted then went dark. He opened the door quietly.

 

It was a room that looked like a surgical theatre, lit with a single bare bulb. But the walls, the floor, and the ceiling, were painted a deep, dark red. Red the colour of drying blood. Of death.

_Of a dozen red lead sinkers._

Natasha was strapped to dentists chair in the middle of the room, glaring up at Ivan, who was flanked by two male nurses.

"<My little spider, I'm sorry it came to this.>" said Ivan. He was filling a needle with a vial of clear yellow liquid.

She laughed coldly, shaking her head. "<You've been looking for any excuse Ivan. You didn't like that I was trying to live my own life beyond your ridiculous army.>"

She leaned into the restraints, and Clint heard the leather protest. "<Every time you do this, it takes more. And you are running out.>"

"<I am working on a new treatment->" Ivan hissed, only to be cut off.

"<You lie old man. There is no substitute for the venom. You will run out, and I will finally die..>"

Clint drew his bow and stepped out of the shadows, pointing an arrow at Ivan.

"Can I have a say in this?"

Ivan and the nurses startled, one of them starting towards him, but Clint laughed.

"<Sure, I could use target practice.>"

Frowning, the man stepped back.

Clint spoke to Natasha. "Miss Romanov, that offer is still open. A place in S.H.I.E.L.D., just like I said before." 

"<What is he saying?>" Ivan said, looking at Natasha.

She ignored him, speaking to Clint.

"How can you ask me that? I'm a murderer, I've-."

"Natasha," he said quietly. "You're not that person anymore. You don't want to be a their thug anymore, you're better then that and you know it."

She looked uncertain. "You're asking me to go against everything I know, my training, my whole life."

"I know. But if you die, now, you'll never wipe out the red on your ledger."

Something changed in her face, and she smiled at him.

"All right. Get these off of me."

Clint motioned for the men to move back, they did so, slowly. "<You, tall man, you get these off>."

Glowering, the other man unbuckled her restraints. She got to her feet in one smooth movement, and then punched the nurse in the face, smiling as he staggered, putting his hands to his bleeding nose. She turned to her handler.

"<Ivan…the man who raised me. You were like a father to me…Maybe I should kill you..>" she said slowly, as it was something that had only just come to her.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" said Clint. She stood there, glaring at Ivan for several moments. Then shook her head.

"<No. Without him, these girls would all die within a few days. But it doesn't stop me _wanting_ it. >" Her words dripped with malice, and Ivan moved back a step, fear in his eyes. Then, with a shrug, she turned back to Clint. 

"Promise me that you'll come back for them one day."

He looked at her, a woman he barely knew, and knew better then he knew himself. To have gone through all of this, and to still have a part of her soul...

"I promise you, we will."

"<Ivanich, goodbye. Thank you for _everything_. >"

She gave him a mocking little bow, the thing he'd seen ballerinas do, then left the room. Clint covered her, then aimed and loosed. The arrow struck the light bulb with a hiss and a shattering of sparks. There was startled shouts, and Clint ran out, smirking. After locking the door.

"I hope you child abusers can get a kick out of that." he said to the door, then hurried off, catching quickly up to Natasha.

"We have to go." she said.

"Do you want to get the girls?" he said, but she shook her head. "For the time being, they're better with Ivan. Right now, we have to run."

"Why?"

"Because they're coming."

She started to run and he followed her. "Who's coming?"

"Everyone."


	10. The Gauntlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha must make a break for freedom, but it's easier said then done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the penultimate chapter! Well, there will also be an epilogue.

"What do you mean 'everyone'?"

"Haven't you ever wondered where Ivan gets all his girls from?" she retorted as they ran through the maze of alleys.

"I thought they were all orphans."

"Some of them are…but Ivan always needs a hook. After all, orphans don't have parents and relatives you can manipulate." She paused, looking at him warily.

"I have a feeling I'm not going to like what you're going to say next." Clint said darkly.

"Obviously, you're not the first assassin sent after me Hawkeye. The ones I didn't manage to terminate, Ivan and the town….dealt with."

_The young ragged man, his hands up to stop him, the look in his eyes as he died._

_And he'd mentioned Ivan._

Hawkeye grabbed her by the arm. "What did you just say?"

Natasha pulled him towards her, a second after a bullet bit into the wooden fence behind him with a roar.

"Don't be such a _tselka_ or we're both going to get killed!" she snarled at him, pulling him back into a run.

"What's a _tselka_?"

She pulled him flat against a wall as footsteps ran past, then motioned him to keep moving.

"It means 'virgin'."

Clint laughed. "Okay, is that a joke about my sex life or my abilities as an agent?"

"Can't it be both?" said Natasha. She looked back at him and smiled slyly. 

He shook his head, still smiling. "You're such _govnosos_."

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" she said.

"Not unless I want to be arrested for necrophilia."

"They do say incest is best." she shot back, not even pausing at his retort. He suddenly realised he was grinning.

Part of Clint's mind couldn't believe that they were treating the situation so lightly, not to mention that he was actually bantering with the woman who, up until yesterday, had been his target. But in spite of the fact that they were both running for their lives, he was actually….happy. Yeah, clearly he needed therapy.

 

"How did Ivan warn them?" he said, getting back on track.

"He didn't. He set up a signal with one of his watchers."

"What's the signal?"

"I come out alone."

"Is there a reason we didn't take out the watcher?"

"Because it's an eleven year old boy."

"Ah. Right."

They'd gotten to the main road, and Hawkeye was hoping that they would be able to get back to the textile factory to get his files and laptop, when they were suddenly cut off by a jeep.

"Hey! What the hell-"

The driver and both passengers both drew guns.

"Get down!" Natasha dove for the ground, Clint following her. Bullets sizzled by their heads, as fierce as killer bees. Staying low, Natasha slowly started to crawl towards the car. Clint rolled behind a crate, and got out his bow, sending a few arrows their way. He watched as she drew a gun from under her jacket, then placed the muzzle against the passenger car door, firing rapidly. The shooting abruptly stopped. Opening the door, she reached in and pulled out four guns, slightly bloodied. She tossed one to him, then pocketed the others.

"Better then yours." she said, off the look he gave her.

"What's wrong with mine?"

Natasha gave him a mocking smile. "Little boy, if you want real weapons, you get them from paranoid, angry people who like to fight."

"So from White Supremacists?"

"You want to help or do you want to make bad jokes?"

"I'd rather do both."

"Isn't that what Iron Man does?"

"I'm way prettier then him."

"I've seen the pictures tsklah, trust me, you aren't. Duck."

He did so, Natasha and fired over his head, dropping another killer.

"They're getting faster," she said.  "We've got to get out of the kill zone."

Clint nodded. "Ideally we should head to the airport."

"They'd cut us off before we made three kilometres, and I mean that literally."

"Well, you have any ideas?" he said, and loosed three arrows to the right, dropping the men who'd been trying to sneak up on them.

Natasha closed her eyes, her face frowning in concentration. Suddenly they snapped open, and she started into a run. He followed right behind.

 

"I have a friend," she said. "A smuggler. For enough money he'd fly us to Mexico."

"Not to America?"

"He's on the FBI's most wanted list."

"Nice company you keep."

"Beggars can't be choosers Hawkeye."

"All right then, we need a car."

Natasha let off a couple more shots, and shook her head.

"Too slow. Motorcycle."

He shook his head. "Motorcycles don't have any coverage."

"We won't need it," she said, and absently rubbed her side as she zipped up her leather jacket. "A motorcycle can out race any car. And right now, we need the speed."

He grinned, and opened his mouth, but she held up a warning hand.

"If you quote Top Gun at me, I _will_ shoot you in the knee cap."

He nodded with a grin, following her towards a blue motorcycle. "Yes ma'am."

 

Heading towards the smugglers base, Natasha had driven, amazed that 'S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most famous trick shot' had never ridden a motorcycle.

Halfway there, he felt her start to shake, the cycle start to slow down.

"Tasha? Hey Tasha, what's the matter?"

"Natasha, please…no one calls me Tasha." she said, then bit off a gasp. She brought the bike to a stop.

"Natasha? Hey!"

She started to slide off the bike, head lolling to the side. "Whoa!" He snaked out an arm, caught her. She was feverish, shaking

"Natasha?"

She shook her head, gasping, then winced.

"It's nothing....just a scratch."

He carefully laid her down on the side of the road, unzipped her jacket

 Her shirt underneath was wet and red. There was blood _everywhere_. He clamped down on a feelings of panic, and tried to keep his face calm.

"Okay, okay....first thing is, first thing is....we have to stop the bleeding."

His shirt, he could tear it for bandages. He took off his own jacket, but Natasha stopped him, putting up a shaking hand.

"Barton…." He looked up.

"You have to go." 

Clint shook his head stubbornly. "No...no I'm not leaving you behind. You're S.H.I.E.L.D. recruit now, that makes you my responsibility."

Suddenly, there was a gun in his face. Shaking, but still steady enough to give him a little worry.

"Maybe then….you can understand this. If you don't leave me here, I will shoot you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ragged man in Hawkeyes flashback first appears at the end of chapter five 'Arrivals and Departures'.


	11. Not Indestructible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has to get the Black Widow out of Russia before their luck runs out.

He looked at her. "Natasha…."

"Barton," she mimicked. "Leave. Now." Tough words, but her hands were shaking.

"Natasha…I can't drive a motorcycle. Remember?"

She blinked at him, and he smiled crookedly. "If you can't get us out of here now, we're both going to die."

"You don't understand." she said, shaking her head.

"I don't understand?" he snapped, suddenly angry. "Don't understand what? Don't understand that you're a killer? That you're wounded and will probably slow us down? Don't understand that if I take you with me I'm going to endanger us both? Tell me what I don't understand Natasha!"

She blinked at him, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I don't deserve this."

He sighed, let out a deep breath. "You _deserve_ a second chance. Everyone does."

For a heartbeat, they looked at each other, the only sound her labored breathing.

Then slowly, she put the gun down.

Clint nodded, then walked back to the bike. He'd need more then a mostly clean shirt to patch her wounds. There was a repair kit on the back. Opening it, he took out a roll of duct tape.

"I'm sorry, but there's no first aid kit. I can patch you up a bit, but it won't be pleasant."

She shook her head slowly. "Don't worry about it _teslka_ , I've had much worse."

"I'll try to be as quick as possible." he said. Tearing off the edge of his shirt, he got to work.

She hardly moved a muscle as he taped her up, even though he knew from experience that it wasn't comfortable or easy to endure. She looked up at the sky, making no sound as tears quietly ran down her face.

Finally he was done. He sat back on his heels, pulling down her shirt to cover the wound, wiping his bloody hands off on his own shirt. "Done as much as I could Natasha ." She smiled wearily, and held out her hand to be helped up. "It'll do. Help me back onto the bike."

 

They moved much more slowly, Natasha unable to lean into the turns the way that she would be able to otherwise. Clint had to put his hands over hers to help steer the damned thing. Her hands felt cold....and he squeezed them gently, trying to will his strength into her. Her head was drooping when they finally reached the deserted airport.

"...We're here." she said, turning off the engine. Clint helped her off the bike.

"Where are we headed?"

She pointed with her free hand. "That shack there, the one that's playing bad Russian folk music." She tried to walk, but stumbled, Clint just barely catching her.

"...I think I'm going to need some help." she said. He nodded and slung her arm over his shoulder.

They made their way slowly across the broken tarmac, the spring wind chilling Clint's hands. He wished he'd had time to stop by his nest in the textile factory, he'd have brought his gloves. And bandages and aspirin would be nice too.

As they got to the door, it swung open with a bang. A tall blonde man with watery eyes shook a gun at them, yelling something. "Hey, hey! Don't shoot!" said Clint.

"Enough Meyers!" said Natasha. The man stopped, cocking his head to the side.

"Is Red Hair?" he said, speaking in heavily accented English. "Yes! Yes is Red Hair!" he smiled widely, and tucked the gun into his waistband.

"Come, come in please before you make ground all bloody!"

Clint looked at Natasha as he helped her inside. "Who is this guy?"

"Norwegian conspiracy theorist. Think the Lone Gunmen, but taller." said Natasha, staggering inside with Clint's help.

"Yes, X-Files! My favourite show ever, best show!" said Meyers, gesturing for them to sit down on a wide crate. Clint nodded, and carefully lowered Natasha onto it. She settled with a small grunt of pain, one arm resting protectively over the wound.

"So! Who is this fellow, Red hair?" said Meyers.

"An American assassin." she said, shrugging.

"Oh?" Meyers looked Clint up and down like a cat looking at a mouse. "A lover?" He drew the word out, and Clint blushed.

Natasha gave him a wry grin. "Actually, he was sent here to kill me."

Meyers snorted. "Pah, I don't know if I approve of man who does not finish what he starts."

Clint barked out a laugh. Even Natasha managed a small smile.

"Meyers, we need your plane."

"Maybe I need plane, why you need?" he said, gesturing from himself to her.

"I need it so I don't die here." she answered.

"Little Red Hair, you are bleeding all over nice crate. Is not so good. I get bandages and vodka, will make better. And of course you can have plane! Is no good stay here and die. Where you going?"

"Mexico." said Clint.

"Mexico? Hokay José, we going to Mexico! Only take little time, one day. I go get bandages now."

Clint looked at Natasha as Meyers walked a little ways off, rummaging in a box as he muttered to himself.

 

"What's his deal?" he asked, looking back at Natasha. She shook her head wearily. "Meyers grew up hearing stories about 'wonderful mother Russia' from his history teacher. He moved here when he was twenty, found out that the Russia he heard of isn't this one." She shifted position, winced, then kept talking. "So he moved out here to do some 'honest smuggling', while playing the Russian bear for visitors. He may sound like a ham-fisted James Bond villain, but his heart's in the right place."

"I found bandages! And painkillers! Codeine, only two years expired!" shouted Meyers happily, waving a small bottle in one large hand, with a roll of gauze in the other.

Clint nodded, bemused. "That's…great…thanks." He looked back at Natasha, who smiled tiredly.

"Don't hold it against him, it's hard to be a romantic in Russia."

Meyers walked over, shoving the bottle into Hawkeye's free hand. "Hokay Mr. American, I go to warm up plane, you warm up girl!"

The large man winked at the agent, then walked out the door, closing it with a loud cheerful bang.

When he'd left, Clint turned to Natasha, crouching down next to her. She lifted her shirt, and he re-bandaged the wound. "The bleeding hasn't stopped." he said, frowning. He put a hand to her forehead. "And you're ice cold." He gently pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face.

"I'm going into shock." said Natasha wearily. "I've lost too much blood..."

She reached out and took his hand. She rubbed her thumb along his knuckles, drawing little circles. "Hawkeye….Barton....what you've done for me...."

"Look, don't worry," he interrupted, smiling.  "Everything's is going to be fine. Trust me, two days from now, you'll be kicking back on the Helicarrier, eating chocolates, bored stiff from bed rest."

She raised an eyebrow. "You've got quite the imagination."

"Don't knock it, without imagination, you wouldn't be here."

They both laughed. Weakly and wearily, but still. It felt good.

The door opened suddenly, and Meyers came in,  clapping his hands together. "We are ready! The plane, she is, ah, how you say, 'raring to go'.  You will play the Prince Charming and swoop Sleeping Beauty up in strong arms."

Clint nodded, and looked over at Natasha. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale as she slumped forwards.

He leaned over urgently.

"Natasha? Natasha?!"

She cracked an eye open and smiled.

"....Hey....virgin, relax. I'm not going anywhere…just yet."

He let himself slump with relief. "God Natasha….just…don't scare me like that."

"I'll…try not to."

He picked her up, and carried her as gently as possible to the hanger, towards a plane that had been in good condition......about fifty years ago. Meyers waved him towards the loading bay, nodding and smiling.

"Lovebirds in back, we fly to Mexico, no more then eight hours. Maybe six, we see."

Hawkeye gingerly set Natasha down in the back, strapping her onto a cot made of old crates.

"So Meyer….why does the FBI have an all points bulletin out on you?" said Hawkeye.

"Oh not much. I took something." he said, shrugging expressively.

" 'Something'?"

He grinned. "A wife."

"A wife." Clint said flatly in disbelief. "You kidnapped someone's wife."

"Not 'someone', wife of FBI man."

"O…kay."

"He was beating her." said Natasha drowsily.

"Who was beating her?"

"Mr. FBI, that's who." said Meyers. Natasha nodded slowly.

"Hokay! Strap in lovebirds, we about to fly." said Meyers, heading for the cockpit.

Clint strapped Natasha in, then himself. The plane was soon in the air, She looked over at him.

"Hawkeye?" she said.

"Yeah?"

"….What's your name? Your real name."

"Ah, it really is Clint Barton." he smiled self consciously.

"….Clint…..like Clint Eastwood."

He smiled. "Not quite."

"You watch a lot of westerns?"

"Some...."

"You think....we could watch some together sometime?"

He took her hands. They were freezing.

"Sure. It'll be fun, a western marathon. We'll watch all of them, even the bad ones."

She nodded, then closed her eyes.

"We'll have to deal with the venom." she said suddenly.

"What is it exactly?" he said.

"It's....hard to explain....it's like a combination of PCP and steroids. It...also...inhibits your...conscience...."

"Sounds pretty gruesome."

"Yes....it's....pretty strong stuff. They give it to you....and you don't....care if you kill a man. Or two. Or your lover. Children. Not until....later."

Something in her voice when she said 'lover' gave him a thought. "That's what Sau Paulo was, wasn't it? Your lover? What happened?"

She closed her eyes. "Red Room. They told...each of us that....the other one was a traitor, recruited by the other side."

He nodded. "I can see where this is going."

"That's...right...Tell someone that they're acting suspicious....and pretty soon everything is....suspect. He drew a gun on me, but I threw an ashtray at his head. Didn't stop him, but it gave me....time to.....deal with him."

There was quiet for a moment.

"I think that I....could have loved him." It hurt, to hear her talking like this, to someone she barely knew. As if she was confessing.

"Natasha...why are you talking like this?"

She turned back to him. "I should....thank you Clint. You've....gave me a chance. It's....more then anything....anyone else gave me."

"No, no you're not going to die. Not after everything that's happened."

"I think that I regret....the children the most. And Segundo."

Clint cocked his head to the side. "That was the poet, right?"

"Yes....I started reading poetry because of him....He was....a good man."  
"Sounds like Meyers isn't the only romantic in here." said Clint, smiling.

Natasha said nothing. "Natasha?"

Her eyes were closed. He quickly felt for a pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief as he found it, thready and weak, but still there. "Hang in there."

 

There should be saline bags. Saline and morphine. Soft blankets to keep her warm. A reclining cot. But they didn't have any of that. There were some water bottles, some rags that he dampened and moped her face with. He held her close, told her stories about growing up in the circus, about movies, about working with SHIELD. He talked to her, and kept her awake.

She had to stay awake.

 

If only there was morphine. She was hurting so much, but she didn't complain. Didn't cry out. So he kept talking. He told her about the first bow he'd ever had, about his parents....about Barney. She would doze, and he would have to wake her again, and killed him to see her gathering herself again, trying to stay _here_ and _now_. It surprised him how much he felt for this strange woman, this killer. It surprised him how much comfort him being near seemed to give her.

She had to stay awake.

 

He couldn't wake Natasha this time. He'd shaken her, yelled her name. "Please Natasha, please wake up. You're almost there honey, come on, you're almost there."

 _"Please to be bracing for landings!"_ said Meyer over the staticed coms.

Clint did so, stretching out his legs to push against Natasha's chair and the wall of the plane, bracing them both. There was a bump, and another bump, both big enough to knock him dizzy. Then they were gliding over the tarmac with a rush of noise, then slowly coasted to a stop.

"Natasha? We're here." he said.

She didn't respond. He patted her face. "Hey, hey Natasha!"

There was a noise behind him of the loading ramp lowering.

"Agent Barton?"

Clint turned in disbelief at the sound of a familiar voice. Agent Coulson was standing there, with a full medical team. As well as a full squad of full armed agents.

"How….?"

"When you didn't check in, we got a little worried." said Coulson, gesturing for the medical team to come on board. They headed for Natasha, and Clint grinned tiredly, raising an eyebrow. " 'Little?' "

Coulson shrugged. "Well, maybe more then a little."

"How did you even know where I was?"

"Agent Hill surmised that you would use Mr. Meyer's services, and that it would take you roughly twenty hours or more to arrive in Mexico. And I know you Barton."

The medics gently pushed past Clint to hover around Natasha, putting in shunts and setting up saline bags. Clint turned to look, not wanting to hope, but unable to help it.

"Who's this?" said Couslon. Clint ignored him, looking down at Natasha, willing her, _willing_ her to open her eyes, open her eyes damnit!

"His new partner." said Natasha weakly, giving them both a small smile as she opened her eyes at long last.


	12. Epilogue-Not Endless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you get for the assassin who has everything?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the horribly long wait, I choked and thought I wasn't going to be able to do chapter any justice. But I realised that wanting things to be perfect is a silly idea, and I should just do it. So I sat down and wrote it.  
> Also re-wrote part of chapter eleven, as it wasn't quite right. I'll probably go over the whole work again at some point, but that's another day. Meanwhile, welcome to the beginning of the end.

 

 

 

"It's pretty here."

Clint nodded. "Sure is."

He and Natasha were standing behind a railing overlooking Iguazu Falls on the Brazil side. The view so breathtaking that it was nearly unreal, the blue of the sky and the rainbow of the water-spray looking like a scene out of a painting. It was, in fact, a perfect day.

Natasha turned away from the scene, looking sideways at Clint as she smiled tentatively.

"I've never really had time to myself. It's always been about the mission, or learning new skills or honing the ones I already had."

Clint shrugged, folding his arms. "Welcome to downtime."

Natasha smiled. He smiled back as he looked at her, seeing less of the caged animal she'd been, and more of the free woman she was becoming. Made him feel proud, like a....he didn't want to say 'Father' exactly....but proud.

"Downtime…strange word." She looked into the distance, rubbing her stomach as she did. Clint noticed the motion. "Stitches bothering you?"

"They itch."

"They come out in two days, relax."

"Don't you tell me to relax, you're not the one with the itchy stitches." she said grumpily. She turned back to the view, changing the subject. "What's this place called?"

"You don't know?"

She shrugged. "Weapons don't learn global geography."

Clint nudged her gently with an elbow, grinning as she swore in Russian. "You're not a weapon. Weapons don't like poetry." He grinned as Natasha rolled her eyes.

"You could learn a lot from Plath you know."

"So teach me. And I'll teach you how to cook spaghetti."

She wrinkled her nose. "Spaghetti?"

"All right, how to cook borsht then. How to ride a bike. How to drink from the water hose on a hot day, things like that."

She shook her head. "Sounds very... American."

"What's the matter, afraid you might like it? he said, giving her his cockiest smile.

She flashed him a mocking smile. "I'm not afraid of anything."

"Good. Then we start our bike lessons tomorrow."

She sighed again as he chuckled. "You asked me earlier why we're here?" he said.

She nodded. "The view is beautiful, but you could have taken me to Arches National Park, or Monument Valley, or maybe Bryce Canyon. They're closer to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters."

"No geography huh?" he shot her a wry look. She rolled her eyes.

"I googled it."

"Okay then. Well, the reason we're in Brazil is because right now, they have a VIP I thought you might want to meet."

"I'm not one for celebrities Barton."

"Oh this one I think you'll like. You see, he's a poet, comes to this spot everyday for inspiration. At least, that's what my intel says. Of course, he has to take it slowly, ever since the riot."

She frowned at him. "The…what?" she said, confused. Clint simply pointed behind her at the trail. She turned, her eyes widening as she saw a small man, walking with a cane approaching the viewpoint. He was no more then forty, but his eyes were those of a man twice his age. Even so, he had a small smile of contentment as he looked out over the falls and the setting sun.

"My god that's..."

"Maza Segundo." Clint finished. She took a step towards the man, then looked at Clint for, clearly not knowing what to do. Clint shrugged again, smiling.

"Go say 'hi', comment on the weather, talk about the waterfall. You know, normal boring stuff. Pretend you're an American tourist dazzled by his fame."

Natasha snorted in disbelief. Hearing the sound, the poet turned in their direction, nodding pleasantly. To Clints lasting surpise and glee, Natasha flushed as red as her hair.

"Ah...hi." she stammered.

"I…sorry, no English." he said apologetically.

"<That's all right sir, I speak Spanish."> Natasha replied. Segundo grinned. "<Ah! So pleasant to meet someone from your country who actually bothers to learn another tongue. You know me?>"

Natasha nodded."<Yes sir, I'm a long time admirer of your work. Although…I thought  that you'd died.>"

Segundo pulled up the leg of his pants to revealed a gnarled, knotted swath of skin running from his ankle to his knee. 

"<I very nearly did. But that knock on the head saved me. When I fell to the ground, another body fell on top of me. The fall broke my leg, but the poor soul saved me from any further harm, as well as hiding my face from murderous eyes. I waited until nightfall, then crawled to the house of my brother-in law, who helped to smuggle me out of the country.>"

Natasha looked like she was struggling to find the right words, Clint grinned. Who'dve thought that the mighty Black Widow could stammer like an ordinary fangirl? It was cute as hell.

"<I'm….glad you didn't die sir. Your poetry has always inspired me.>"

He winked. "<I'm glad to hear that I can still have an affect on a beautiful woman.>"

Natasha lowered her eyes, blushing. "<Thank you sir.>"

"<Enough with the 'sir'. Rank is for the military, we are free people, and don't have to put up with such bullshit, pardon my words.>"

"<I've read all your books si-, ah, Mr. Segundo, although I confess that I only started reading when you died, I mean, when you were presumed dead.>"

He cocked his head at her, fixing her with a twinkling, sparrow-like eye.

"<I hope you've read more since then. I was such a callow youth before that happened. I'd never experienced loss, or true fear. Now I try to appreciate life, to give back a little to the world. To find joy, and beauty where I can. Because it is truly fleeting.>"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, holding it out to Natasha. "<For you my dear.>"

Natasha nearly dropped it. "<You want me to …..take one of your poems?>"

"<Not take, it's a gift. And why not? As their author, I have the right to do what I like with them, don't I?>"

He nodded, looking satisfied. "<I hope you like it.>"

He slowly started to make his way back down the path. Natasha turned to Clint, then apprubtly away, looking towards the waterfalls, putting her free hand on the railing. She wiped at her face with a free hand, then took a deep breath.

"That was….I will never forget this Clint, thank you."

Clint nodded, then realised she couldn't see him.

"You're welcome."

She shook her head as she looked out over the rushing water before her. "I was so sure I'd killed him, he should be dead. That rock should have killed him."

"Well then, I call that a piece of luck."

She nodded, smiling at him, then opened slip of paper and read it.

 

_We are all of us in a dark wood,_

_Surrounded by wolves and thorns,_

_Sundered from the easy path home,_

_And solitary under a moonless sky._

_But night is full of the crickets and birdsong,_

_Teeth cannot catch them_

_For even a dark wood is not endless._

 


End file.
